He’s a wonderful conversationalist. Did you know he studies affirmations to improve himself?”
“He’s a regular Dr. Phil.” A dangerous scowl appeared on Brody’s face, but Melissa barreled on.
“At least he’s not a Pussycat Doll.”
“Ella Joy is an accomplished journalist,” said Brody through clenched teeth. “Worth two extra ratings points, according to her—whatever that means.”
“If I went on the air wearing the stuff she does, I’d get two ratings points too!”
“Why don’t you then?”
The nerve of the man. “You’re not my career adviser. You want me to dress up in red vinyl and no underwear?”
Heat leaped in Brody’s eyes. He dug his fingers into her upper arms. His mouth lowered to hover an inch over hers. “How do you do this to me? I never argue. Ever. With everyone else I’m calm and in control. I get around you, and I snap.”
“So you’re blaming me?” Melissa fired back.
“Yes,” he said, and his mouth swooped down on hers. Fire shot through her, the same unforgettable heat she’d felt that first night. His strong hands cradled her head, and a shiver shook her entire body. Those hands moved her head at will, tilting her face up to receive his kiss more deeply. She melted into a boneless, liquid waterfall of desire.
The dog whimpered.
“I blame that sweater you’re wearing, and how it moves against your body,” mumbled Brody against her lips.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” whispered Melissa. It was all she could do to get a sentence out.
“I noticed. I’ve been watching you all evening, with that short skirt and those . . .” He groaned. “ . . . those sexy boots.” One of his thighs thrust between her legs, which moved apart to make room for him. Her skirt rode up her thighs as she pressed herself against him. He muttered something else—something like “You’re killing me”—then moved his warm hands to her suede-covered rear to pull her more tightly against him.
Her breath came in quick pants, and her hands roamed his back, loving the feel of those hard muscles she’d dreamed about since the other night. She ran her hands down his backside to his strong thighs, feeling his muscles clench at her touch. Her head swam. “I want you,” she whispered. “Right now, against this door.”
Her words seemed to set him off. He spun her around so her back was to the door, firmly placed her legs around him, and crushed his bulging erection against her groin. A stream of rough, hot whispers came next. “I want to open you up . . . touch you all over . . . make you scream . . . spread you wide . . .” All the while he kept her pinned to the door, so only her hips could move. These seemed to have a will of their own, and she felt them quiver and thrust and tease. Her blood sang, her nerves thrummed.
The dog whined and pawed at Melissa’s leg.
“Stop it, Stan,” Brody ordered, tearing his mouth away from hers.
“The dog is Stan?” Melissa panted.
“Our dogs are always named Stan.” He nibbled at her neck, making her shudder with wild desire. “Stan!”
The dog wouldn’t stop nipping at Melissa’s skirt.
Through the frantic drumbeat of her excitement, she barely heard the footsteps outside the door. Then she was being yanked into the air and set down on her feet. Brody thrust her behind him just as the door opened.
“Oh!” said Fred, jaw dropping. “I . . . uh . . . was just going to the . . . Never mind. I can hold it.” He turned to flee, but Brody stopped him.
“Go ahead. We were . . . um . . . just coming in.”
Hiding behind his broad shoulders, Melissa pulled down her skirt and straightened her hair. Was she halfway presentable? She felt her cheeks; still flushed. Her breath came in fast pants. And what about Brody? He hadn’t unzipped his pants—thank God things hadn’t gone that far—but his shirt was no longer neatly tucked in. They would just have to brazen it out.
Melissa stepped forward.
“He’s a regular Dr. Phil.” A dangerous scowl appeared on Brody’s face, but Melissa barreled on.
“At least he’s not a Pussycat Doll.”
“Ella Joy is an accomplished journalist,” said Brody through clenched teeth. “Worth two extra ratings points, according to her—whatever that means.”
“If I went on the air wearing the stuff she does, I’d get two ratings points too!”
“Why don’t you then?”
The nerve of the man. “You’re not my career adviser. You want me to dress up in red vinyl and no underwear?”
Heat leaped in Brody’s eyes. He dug his fingers into her upper arms. His mouth lowered to hover an inch over hers. “How do you do this to me? I never argue. Ever. With everyone else I’m calm and in control. I get around you, and I snap.”
“So you’re blaming me?” Melissa fired back.
“Yes,” he said, and his mouth swooped down on hers. Fire shot through her, the same unforgettable heat she’d felt that first night. His strong hands cradled her head, and a shiver shook her entire body. Those hands moved her head at will, tilting her face up to receive his kiss more deeply. She melted into a boneless, liquid waterfall of desire.
The dog whimpered.
“I blame that sweater you’re wearing, and how it moves against your body,” mumbled Brody against her lips.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” whispered Melissa. It was all she could do to get a sentence out.
“I noticed. I’ve been watching you all evening, with that short skirt and those . . .” He groaned. “ . . . those sexy boots.” One of his thighs thrust between her legs, which moved apart to make room for him. Her skirt rode up her thighs as she pressed herself against him. He muttered something else—something like “You’re killing me”—then moved his warm hands to her suede-covered rear to pull her more tightly against him.
Her breath came in quick pants, and her hands roamed his back, loving the feel of those hard muscles she’d dreamed about since the other night. She ran her hands down his backside to his strong thighs, feeling his muscles clench at her touch. Her head swam. “I want you,” she whispered. “Right now, against this door.”
Her words seemed to set him off. He spun her around so her back was to the door, firmly placed her legs around him, and crushed his bulging erection against her groin. A stream of rough, hot whispers came next. “I want to open you up . . . touch you all over . . . make you scream . . . spread you wide . . .” All the while he kept her pinned to the door, so only her hips could move. These seemed to have a will of their own, and she felt them quiver and thrust and tease. Her blood sang, her nerves thrummed.
The dog whined and pawed at Melissa’s leg.
“Stop it, Stan,” Brody ordered, tearing his mouth away from hers.
“The dog is Stan?” Melissa panted.
“Our dogs are always named Stan.” He nibbled at her neck, making her shudder with wild desire. “Stan!”
The dog wouldn’t stop nipping at Melissa’s skirt.
Through the frantic drumbeat of her excitement, she barely heard the footsteps outside the door. Then she was being yanked into the air and set down on her feet. Brody thrust her behind him just as the door opened.
“Oh!” said Fred, jaw dropping. “I . . . uh . . . was just going to the . . . Never mind. I can hold it.” He turned to flee, but Brody stopped him.
“Go ahead. We were . . . um . . . just coming in.”
Hiding behind his broad shoulders, Melissa pulled down her skirt and straightened her hair. Was she halfway presentable? She felt her cheeks; still flushed. Her breath came in fast pants. And what about Brody? He hadn’t unzipped his pants—thank God things hadn’t gone that far—but his shirt was no longer neatly tucked in. They would just have to brazen it out.
Melissa stepped forward.
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